


can’t see what they’re doing but I can hear

by missroserose



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, M/M, Partying, Voyeurism, savage takedowns of 80s home office culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: It's a party.  Billy's drunk.  And his date is missing.A standalone vignette, set during Chapter 4 ofmaybe there is a beast.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	can’t see what they’re doing but I can hear

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [maybe there is a beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18766060) by [harringroveheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harringroveheart/pseuds/harringroveheart). 



> This stands on its own fine, but if you haven't read harringroveheart's work, definitely check it out. It's so good.

“Oh hell yeah. Take off your shirt.”

Billy’s too drunk for this. Or maybe that’s the problem, maybe he’s not drunk enough—the slow soothing cradle-sway of the ground beneath him, the careful list of the room to the right isn’t enough to soften the blunt edges of seeing someone else seducing Lacey Fieldman right out from under him. He should march in there. Should claim her back, drag her by the hair if he has to—and he will. In a minute, when he’s finished his whiskey and can be bothered to give a shit. For the moment, he slumps against the side of the doorframe, watching with half-interest, mostly-empty bottle dangling from his fingers.

It’s not even a private space. It’s probably an office during the daytime, Billy figures, and not one that gets used often—wood paneling, big desk in one corner, beanbag chairs and shag carpet that’re at least a decade old. The lights are out, now, the room barely lit; a few couples are making out here and there, on the beanbags, in the corners. There’s a big oversize chair, the kind that low-grade execs buy for their homes to make them feel better about not having gotten the corner office yet. It’s canted away from the door slightly, but whoever’s in it has Lacey between his knees, smiling up at him in clear delight. She raises up on her knees and strips off her shirt, perky little tits silhouetted soft against the lava lamp glowing on the desk.

“Have you missed me?” Her words are soft, curled at the ends, sultry and beckoning in that way Billy wonders how the more experienced girls manage. 

“Every day,” the guy murmurs, smooth as silk. He’s not drunk—his diction’s too clear for that—but the words are a little rough around the edges. His fingers reach out, caress the side of her face, trace down, down, curving around her breast. A thumb brushes her nipple, and Billy watches her eyes close, sees her shiver. “Missed these too.”

Her eyes open again and she smiles, wicked, gaze flicking up in challenge. “I’ve learned a bit since eighth grade. Bet I can make you forget all about that stuck-up bitch.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” comes the response, and something in Billy’s head is ticking away, some connection his brain’s not quite making—a neuron firing sparks that aren’t quite hitting their target—he wonders for a moment if the sparks are visible, a live power line downed and writhing on the ground—

When his attention turns back to the sordid little tableau, it’s too late—Lacey’s already got the guy’s cock out, is taking him down with the kind of confidence and finesse that you usually only see in porn. Hell, it practically _is_ porn, the little moans she’s making, the way her mouth stretches—the guy’s not small—the way his fingers tangle in her hair, confident, making Billy’s scalp tingle in sympathy. He takes a sip of the whiskey—no sense interrupting things now, when they’re just getting good. It’s just foreplay, really—he’ll find her afterward, show her an even better time. He can feel himself chubbing up a little, watching, thinking about after, thinking how grateful she’ll be when he’s gone down on her a while, when he’s given her the kind of good and thorough pounding this kind of guy’s too big a pussy for—she’s got a hand around him now, bobs her head with panache. The guy makes an appreciative sound—she raises her eyes up, almost expectant, and he gently guides her down, up, down, until he’s leaning forward, rolling his hips, half-fucking her face, hair draping down in the low light—

—the hair—

Billy almost chokes on his whiskey. It’s fucking _Harrington_. Steve Harrington, with his cock in Lacey Fieldman’s mouth—

Steve’s watching him. Catches sight of him in the doorway, holds his gaze; even in the dark, the intensity of that look pins him there, a frog stuck to a specimen board, ready to be dissected.

Then, slowly—Steve _smiles_. “Fuck yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, but his eyes don’t move from Billy’s, and Billy realizes his lips have parted—can feel the blank expression on his face—the heat that he only hopes the darkness is hiding—

Billy lifts the bottle, downs the rest of the contents. Bares his teeth at Harrington—half-wild grimace, half-dominance challenge. Turns around on his heel. Walks away, each step careful and intentional as the ground shifts beneath him. Goes to the kitchen, finds a half a bottle of vodka on the counter. Cracks it open.

He’s _definitely_ not drunk enough for this.

**Author's Note:**

> If we all cross our fingers and hold our breath, maybe harringroveheart will grace us with another chapter soon? 🤞🤞
> 
> Meanwhile, let's go for a [tumbl](https://missroserose.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
